


Understanding.

by Lanna Michaels (lannamichaels)



Category: Equilibrium (2002)
Genre: M/M, Podfic Available, Quotes William Butler Yeats
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-06-03
Updated: 2003-06-03
Packaged: 2017-10-07 23:57:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/70586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lannamichaels/pseuds/Lanna%20Michaels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Preston reflects.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Understanding.

**Author's Note:**

> Much thanks to Ashinae, who provided me with the Equilibrium dialogue so I could write this on the road. The poetry quote is from He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven by Yeats, which was quoted in the film.
> 
> * * *
> 
> tinypinkmouse made a podfic of this [available here](http://amplificathon.livejournal.com/965763.html) and [here](http://audiofic.jinjurly.com/understanding). :D

There were, Preston reflected, a multitude of things he should have said. A barrage of questions were being bandied around his head in search of viable answers. How long? How long had it been since he truly *knew* Partridge? Since they had been as close as he had thought they were? Since they had been...friends.

No, never that. Just a vestigial word to describe a relationship he'd never had. And a price he'd never been asked if he wanted to pay.

 

_But I, being poor, have only my dreams.  
I have spread my dreams under your feet.  
Tread softly, because you tread on my dreams._

 

He hadn't known. He may have been purposely blind concerning his wife, but Partridge had been too good a faker. Preston still wasn't sure how he had been convinced Partridge was taking his intervals when he really wasn't. Perhaps he was, while they were together. Some things just couldn't be faked.

Maybe Partridge deliberately didn't want to feel around his "partner". Maybe the feelings Preston invoked in him were too...heavy to bear. Even for someone who woke up every morning with the possibility that this might be the day he'd pay the ultimate price.

It was a humbling thought.

Partridge had been his mentor. Back when he still wasn't used to being called 'Cleric' instead of his proper name, Partridge had been an enigma Preston had been anxious to solve. He had been a Cleric of considerable fame: the man who had brought down Terrorist Cell 10191 single-handedly. Only now did Preston wonder if Partridge had been feeling even that far back, if the sense offenders had conspired to help Partridge rise higher and arranged it to look like they were being annihilated while, in actuality, they fled.

When Preston had gotten married and performed his duty as one of the elite, Partridge had stood proudly by and given him tips on ways to maximize sperm distribution. Preston had been grateful, never hearing the sarcasm (sense-crime, his mind screamed at him) inherent in the words. Partridge had been a master at what he did, there was no doubt as to that. Whether it was bringing down sense-offenders or being one himself, he acquitted himself with the utmost dignity.

Even in death.

 

_We both know they never "go easy"._

 

He should have demanded answers. He should have demanded to know why, how long, and who was this man before him. Not Errol Partridge, Cleric of the Tetragrammaton. Not Errol Partridge, friend and partner of John Preston.

Preston laughed at himself. Partridge had changed in relation to Preston, yes, but not as much as Preston had changed himself over the past few weeks. Partridge had been who he was and answered to no one but himself in the end. Preston had no right to demand answers.

But he should have.

He should have grabbed his friend by his black collar, thrown that damned book onto the floor, and pulled Partridge to his feet. He should have not let him die until he had his answers. He should have been harder. He should have been faster. He should have been smarter. Partridge should never have gotten away with what he did. He should never have been granted an easy death.

Not after what he did.

Not after betraying John Preston.

Not after...

Preston shut his eyes against the images in his mind. Partridge, stretched out above him, sweat dripping from his shuddering body onto Preston's shaking one. It had never happened and, now, never would. The dreams that he had taken a double interval to avoid, had gone to Equilibrium to receive permission to more than triple his daily dose of Prozium. The dreams that had slowly driven him mad until he realized he would never understand their origin.

Even then he had been guilty of lust.

 

_I assume you dream, Preston._

 

How could he have known? How could Errol Partridge, easily the most professional sense-offender to ever dare to sin, have read Preston's banished and buried faults? How could he have known? Preston had been so careful to never let his shameful desires show. He had never allowed Partridge to see what was in his heart. Preston shook his head sadly. So how could he have assumed Partridge shared everything with him?

Maybe Partridge had shared that with him, though. Maybe Partridge had also felt the obscene attraction between them. Maybe that was why he didn't want to feel around his partner, didn't want to be affected by the emotions that should have held them at cross-purposes. Maybe he, too, had wanted his partner as much as Preston had desperately wanted a (night) (moment) (lifetime) truly private moment between the two of them. Everything was taped and recorded and put through endless study. No weakness could be found among the Cleric. They were the last line of defense and the heroes of a down-trodden society. They must be perfect. There could be no fault found in any of them, from novice to Father himself.

But Father didn't exist.

Perhaps the myth did not either.

Perhaps Clerics didn't need to hold themselves to a higher standard. Maybe Preston could have had a chance, if only he had said something. Some time when they weren't being watched, maybe in the middle of a condemned area where they could have passed it off as being part of the investigation. Maybe they could have sinned there. It would have taken endless planning and perhaps a double interval beforehand to be certain they weren't having any undue feelings during the act itself-

Preston laughed at himself. Partridge would never have stood for such a thing. He was the most proper and dignified man Preston had ever had the honor of meeting. When Errol Partridge sinned, he sinned in such a way that society came crashing down around him. He wouldn't stand for minor sins, minor laws being broken. He had too much honor for such a thing.

 

_Don't._

 

Preston studied the documents in front of him in a futile effort to focus his thoughts. Partridge was dead and he had seen to it that his name was remembered with honor. He had taken the name of the roll of the traitors and placed it before all the citizens of Libria as one of their liberators. Partridge was being remembered the way he would have wanted to be: as who he was, not who he pretended to be. And that was the best gift Preston could have given his dead friend.

Perhaps now, Errol Partridge could rest in peace.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Understanding [Podfic]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/313656) by [tinypinkmouse_podfic (tinypinkmouse)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinypinkmouse/pseuds/tinypinkmouse_podfic)




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